


Friendly Fire

by ide_cyan



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Baking, Confession, Domesticity, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ide_cyan/pseuds/ide_cyan
Summary: Marcus awaits Peter's judgement after his confession.





	Friendly Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apathy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/gifts), [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



Marcus owed Peter the truth about Andy's death. The words spilled out from him before he touched the first drop of Peter's bourbon, then he drained the glass to wash down the taste of his sin and looked up to face Peter's judgement.

"I was there when Nikki killed herself," Peter said. "Andy was devastated. And you're saying that the same thing that compelled Glenn Powell to murder his family took over Andy afterwards, and that you shot him to stop it from carrying out another massacre."

"We could have saved him," Marcus said. "But I was weak. I couldn't bear it taking over Tomas. Andy's death is my fault." His most grievous fault, he thought. Peter couldn't absolve him of his sin. His go-bag was within arm's reach. He could grab it and leave if Peter did not want him in his home a moment longer.

"I know what he did to the Holstroms. I know that they found a woman in the bathtub. She was there the whole time? The last time I saw you?"

"Yes."

"The kids should never have had to see that. But they're alive." Peter took a swig of bourbon. "That counts for a lot." He set the glass down and took Marcus's hands, examining them as if to ascertain whether Andy's blood had left a stain. "You planning on killing me in my sleep, Marcus?"

"No!" The cry was strangled in Marcus's throat. He saw the gun barrel inked into his skin staring back at him between Peter's fingers and wanted to pull his hands away. How much harm had he caused already by coming to see him?

"Do you have a gun on you?"

"No." The murder weapon had been left in Andy's hand, to stage his suicide. But Marcus was the gun.

"Then, at ease, soldier." Peter let go of Marcus's hands. Another touch slipping away. 

He could stay, but he found no ease in disturbing Peter's life.

Although he would have been entirely justified in doing so, Peter did not call the police to have Marcus arrested. Instead, he poured Marcus another glass of his honeyed American corn whiskey. 

"I blamed myself, too, when I heard Andy died," Peter said. "He was my friend. I should have done more, seen the signs. I mourn his loss. A fraction of what he must have felt, when he lost Nikki. And the murders... I'm still not sure if I believe there was a demon in him, if I'm ready to shift the blame for his actions onto... that. But I've seen my share of tough decisions and SNAFUs." There was steel in the velvet depths of Peter's dark eyes. "There is little more heartwrenching or difficult to admit to than friendly fire, and pulling the trigger has clearly taken its toll on you. Thank you, Marcus, for the truth."

They shared war stories long into the night, until Marcus relaxed into a drunken stupor.

Marcus hadn't expected Peter to welcome him with open arms after his confession. The spark between them, banked underneath the weight they carried, still burned, but Peter made up the spare room for him, and they each slept alone.

 

***

 

The odour of baking bread filled the house. Marcus lifted his head from the warmth of his pillow, awoken by the smell, and rubbed the sleep from his tear-englued eyes. There was a glass of water by the bedside, along with a bottle of paracetamol. He drank, and swallowed a couple of pills once his parched mouth regained enough moisture to allow it, still distantly dismayed at the quantities in which American pharmacists dispensed the drug. His rucksack sat by a set of waders and a stack of nature periodicals. Peter had laid out toiletries for him, too. Marcus staggered to the bathroom, taking in the unfamiliar comforts of Peter's home. 

He felt rumpled from head to toe as he drifted into the kitchen in one of Peter's robes, to find the other man wearing a flannel shirt over boxers and fuzzy slippers. Marcus's heart pounded as hard as his head, but Peter smiled at him, pouring Marcus a cup of coffee, acting so disconcertingly normal that Marcus could only gawp. An egg timer went off, and Peter put on a tattered rooster-print oven mitt.

"It’s only store-bought. Ready to heat directly from the freezer. I have many talents, but I wouldn’t go so far as listing hungover breadmaking among them,” Peter said, taking golden-crusted loaves out of the oven. "Scrambled eggs?"

Marcus nodded. The filled cup steamed in his hands. He sat down at a small rustic wooden table. The weekend newspaper was open to a crossword puzzle Peter had begun to fill out. 

It was Sunday morning, Marcus realised.

There was butter laid out on the table, and jam, and when he took the first bite that Peter offered him, breaking bread together with the memory of Andy between them, Marcus began to cry.

He did not stop sobbing until long after Peter's arms squeezed around him, and he felt their strength enclosing the opened gates of his grief.


End file.
